October 12, 2003

Professor Hendurabi,

I trust this letter finds you well.  It has certainly been some time since last we met in Cairo.  Customarily, I take down patrons' contact information in order to pass along any further insight I may receive regarding an individual's future or present circumstances. And while we parted on hasty terms, I felt it requisite to make efforts to contact you.  As you will soon find, professor, our community is not so large as to make that very difficult.

Last night I had a dream of a singular and distressing nature.  It concerned yourself, as well as some others who I could not myself identify.  I do not relate particulars through the post without written request and consent from the individual, or through some prearranged meeting.  As such, I will wait to hear from you if further discussion of the matter is welcome.

Until then,


Professor Dreogan M. Eleor
Muggle-Mage Relations
Laevenstrome Fundunct of Sorcery

---

Friday, March 26, 2004
Lake Elsinore, Riverside County, California

Heat rose streaming from the cement, and the smell of melting asphalt and car exhaust assaulted his senses.  There was no way -- no way -- that it should conceivably be so hot in March; not here, in this mild excuse for a desert.  Behind him, someone sat on their horn, letting it blare loud and long, a sound that would have been just as familiar in Cairo or Tehran as it was in the dusty streets of Lake Elsinore.

He had traveled far in only a few days.  Even with magic, crossing continents did not come easily.  It had taken until now, with Gondishapur closed for Nowruz, for him to have enough time off to even consider making the journey to Laevenstrome.  And so he had -- crossed vast oceans and landscapes until he'd reached the picturesque coastline of California, which had left him one long, winding drive away from the magical institution's door.  It was four in the afternoon when it should have been early in the morning, the sun just barely rising with the sound of the call to prayer.

But here he stood instead, on a sidewalk surrounded by Muggles, grateful for the scarf that he'd brought from home that he could use to shield his head from the sun.  Laevenstrome apparently banked on the chameleon-like camouflage approach to magical protection.  Its entrance was situated in an empty lot near the middle of town, set behind a large bright blue sign that proclaimed in bold English writing that a Walmart was destined to be built here, starting in Summer of 1995.  The scant passerby barely paid it a glance; evidently, the outdated claim barely drew a look of annoyance anymore, and no one but him seemed to notice the magically-concealed building in the empty lot behind it.

Class was obviously letting out for the day.  Students, all of them closer in age to the nezamiyeh mages at Gondishapur than those expected for traditional magical schooling, poured out of a building that resembled an old Victorian mansion and wandered across the grass in twos and threes, chatting as they departed deeper into the campus.  None of them paid him a second look as he watched them, not even as he stepped from the sidewalk and onto the school's grounds.  Evidently, visitors were not out of the ordinary here; anyone who could see Laevenstrome was assumed to have reason to visit it. 

The Iranian mage quelled his fingers away from both the letter in his pocket and the familiar wood of his wand as he strolled into the school's main building.  Since he'd first opened the envelope, the letter had left him unsettled.  It had been years since he had laid eyes on Dreogan Eleor; for all that he knew, the mage had vanished into the dusty streets of Cairo and would never resurface again.  He had not pursued him, but there had been plenty of men and mages that he had pursued.  It was not inconceivable to think that the steely-eyed diviner had decided that he was an enemy, or that he had been coerced into playing a role in some other agent's greater scheme.

And so when Atash finally came, he did so unannounced.  He had never replied to the letter.  He had told no one that he was traveling; left no hint of a planned departure or when he hoped to be back.  With the Nowruz holiday gap in full swing, he would not be missed until the school term resumed in early April.  With any luck, the precautions meant that there would be no chance for a trap to be set -- though with a Seer, everything was only in theory.

The halls of the old manor were already clearing out.  He stopped one or two students, smiling, to ask directions to Professor Eleor's lecture room.  They directed him without a second thought.  The Muggle-Mage Relations department was nearly empty by the time he arrived.  One last student, chatting with his professor as he backed through the door, and then he too had departed.

Steeling himself, setting his jaw firmly, Atash let his fingers rest on his wand and stepped into the classroom.

"Good afternoon," he said mildly, though there was nothing mild about it.  There was no need to notice the details around him.  Everything felt electric, his very being brimming with tense energy, and he was focused like a hawk on Dreogan. "I hope that it will not be too much of an imposition on your time, Professor Eleor," he said, his voice controlled and quiet, "but I was interested to see if I could still prearrange that meeting."

It was a vague presentiment--a slight nervousness in his stomach that might have been attributed to running too far the previous day in rather smoggy conditions.  Or the way he'd observed the ashes of a cigarette fall earlier that day--like embers curling in a fire[nb] in a fire, "strangers"--or ashes--were often a sign that one was soon to have a visitor.  Though that could have had something to do with the fact that the professor's classes had been observed by none other than Almenius Laevenstrome (who had, in his friendly casual manner, called it "popping in unannounced.")


Still, however surprising it might have been to have heard the accented voice in the doorway, it was, at the same time, wholly expected.  At Eldwynn's departure, Dreogan had begun to clear out for the day, tapping his papers into a neat pile and slipping them into a briefcase, before moving to the chalkboard to wipe it clean.  Atash's arrival changed nothing of this.


He gave a silent, single laugh at the man's words--so similar to their first meeting.  Atash the Deliberate would have done better to have selected a different set of words--the sort that had a chance of ringing true.  What Atash was currently doing was the very definition of 'imposition.'


"I was wondering," Dreogan said as he continued to clear the chalkboard in long, smooth strokes, "if you had decided this not worth your time."  It had made little difference to him--whether Atash deigned it worthy of his attention.  But it had unsettled his conscience somewhat.  Dreogan had not often had to sit on a matter of moral and mortal importance for quite so long.  He'd actually come to wonder whether the dream had come to pass already and he--too late.


He set the eraser down, clapped his hands upon his trousers, and regarded Atash with a tilted head. The man looked tired.  There were creases along the lines of his mouth--not smile lines. No, he thought with a wry amusement.  He would not expect that.  These gave the man a certain haggard appearance.  Exhaustion. And right between the brows.  Worry.  His expression softened just somewhat.  He knew the feeling--but was far from empathetic.  Dreogan had little doubt that whatever had come to trouble Atash was of his own doing.  He ought to have learned to leave well enough alone.


"As a Seer, I'm prone to a slightly muddled sense of time.  And so I don't often find myself in the position of correcting sequence of events, but I must say: no.  I'm afraid it's rather too late for a prearrangement."


The stadium-seating was now completely abandoned littered with, Dreogan could tell from a glance, William's jacket, and what looked like several crumpled up pieces of paper under where Sara'd sat.  He gestured to the front row of seats, settling down on a wooden chair that creaked softly under his weight.  "But now works."


But Atash would need to ask for it.

He watched the other mage silently from where he stood just inside the doorway, not yet invited in but still to be cast out.  Dreogan Eleor had grown in the years since he'd last seen him.  The Seer seemed much more steady now, less easily set skittish -- or at least more in tune with his own gift so that he knew what to expect. 

The thought that his visit might not be a complete surprise did not set Atash at ease, but either way, the invitation to talk was what he had come here for.  Dreogan Eleor might not be overly gracious about the imposition, but at least he was willing.  That was all that he would ask for.

"Thank you," said Atash quietly, and let the door close behind him.

There was a sort of universal feel to the classroom that he hadn't expected.  The rows and rows of desks, the scattered papers and forgotten belongings strewn about -- it already felt so familiar that it was almost reassuring.  Atash had chosen this time and place for the meeting because he'd been certain he could catch the Seer unannounced; but now, glancing carefully about, he felt certain that he'd made the right choice.  Dreogan Eleor was a man who took care in his teaching.  The careful cleaning of the chalkboard, the way that he'd stayed after to chat with a student: it was clear that he took his responsibilities as a professor very seriously.  If an ambush was going to happen, it wouldn't happen here.

Which meant that he could stand down, at least a little, at least for now.  Taking his hand from his wand, he nodded once to the other mage and took a wooden chair farther down the row, relieved to be off his feet.

"I apologize," he began, lowering himself carefully to sit.  The wooden chair was not very comfortable; having to speak and adjust his position at the same time when he was already out of practice with his English was not an easy proposition.  "For the suddenness of the visit.  And for the lack of response to your original letter.  It has been a--"  His eyes flicked to meet Dreogan's as he hesitated again.  "--year of many changes."

He frowned, expression tightening for a moment.  "And, I have to admit, I did not know what to make of you contacting me."  He met the mage's gaze more steadily this time, cautiously inquisitive, curiously wary.  "Our last meeting did not leave us on very good terms -- though you have me at the disadvantage at knowing what to expect now, I think."

Dreogan had doubted very much that the world in Iran had changed so dramatically in the past year that they now no longer offered trans-national post, floo-couriers, or smoke signals.  Still, he frowned, at least nominally accepting the apology.  It was not his problem.  After all, it was likely the delay would only truly negatively impact Atash himself.  His hesitation was his own decision--and he'd pay for the consequences, if they came.  In the years since their last visit, Dreogan had contemplated the meaning of personal interest and its often peculiar intersection with humanitarianism.  Today's encounter was not one of those intersections.

The man's English was halting--though still fluent enough to be coherent.  Still--he had never tested the man's English, and there could be very little room for misinterpretation in this conversation.  With a slight change in posture, he switched course and language together.  "Yes," he agreed in Arabic, "the first year is always a transition," he dismissed kindly to quell the tension. "You'll grow used to it once you've built up a solid syllabus and a year's set of lesson plans--which can be adapted from or borrowed as little or as heavily as you like in subsequent years.  As to your other changes--" he waved a dismissive hand. "I couldn't rightfully say on those." He suspected, from the Dream, that they weren't necessarily pleasant ones.  Idly, Dreogan glanced at the man's hands--noting the same distinctive, artisan jewelry, wondering what lines creased the palms, now.  Gaze returning to the Iranian's face, Dreogan leaned back in his wooden seat.

"I will, however, say this regarding my writing you: it has very little to do with any opinion I may have of you, and rather more to do with my need to convey the knowledge I've gained. should you be able to benefit from it.  Call it a conscience," he said with a sharp glance and an ironic smile.  "But that does not change how things stand between us."  Atash had threatened him. Cornered him.  Tried to coerce him for self-gain.  None of those went away--not even as Dreogan sensed that Fate was counting down Atash's remaining days more rapidly.  The X on the hand--the life and fate lines--was drawing near.

"However, this is different from last time.  It is not a reading; as such, I will not charge.  And I don't particularly care about advantages and disadvantages.  I will express what I know, and you can depart as suddenly as you have come."  Can and would.  "That is how I manage these things.  I'm a revelator--not a counselor to advise." And he very much doubted that Atash would accept any of his advice, anyhow.  There was, really, little love lost there.  And, all things considered, the less involved Dreogan was in Atash's future, the better.  Dreogan did not particularly like mingling phases of life--not when he had worked so hard to escape the one in which he'd buried Atash.

"Of course, if you would rather, the Dream has been collected by the Ministy here.   I can give you the catalogue number and, because it concerns you, you will be able to view it for yourself once you gain admittance to the Prophetic Hall.  It is possible you may glean more out of the dream than I--as you may know the other key figures in the dream as well."

The advice could have come nearly word for word from one of the master professors at Gondishapur.  Atash let out a quiet breath, smiling faintly, giving a nod to the switch in language.  Apparently more than classrooms were universal when it came to education.  After a year, he'd probably be lecturing new professors on the importance of settling their lesson plans too: adapting what worked, adjusting what didn't.  The promise of an eventual routine was supposed to be reassuring.  He couldn't help but think that he was enjoying the challenge.

The Seer had even given this speech before or rehearsed it prior.  It did not surprise him.  Dreogan Eleor struck him as a man who liked to leave things behind him.  Past mistakes, old antagonists...whatever had driven him to write the letter was one more virulent lead weight that would be abandoned to the dust.  He couldn't say if he would rather scorn, applaud, or envy the approach.  Leaving things behind was simple.  The Jewish mage seemed particularly gifted at unnaturally forgetting.

He inclined his head as the introduction -- the laying out of terms -- came to an end.  "You didn't charge me the last time, either," Atash said mildly.  Letting out a sigh, he laced his fingers together and let his gaze shift across the room.

A dream.  Presumably prophetic.  Of a singular and distressing nature, the letter had said.  He could draw his own conclusions.  If this was meant as a threat, he could imagine how this shadow game would play out.  And if it wasn't a threat -- if it was something really and truly that Dreogan Eleor felt the need to bury behind him, to relieve from his conscience the way that he had the slaughter of that family, when he'd chosen to run -- then he wasn't certain that he wanted to conclude anything at all.

"I can assure you that I am not interested in counseling," he said slowly, dark eyes shifting back to the other mage.  "But I am not certain that I'm interested in revelations, either.  That is a heavy mantle to assume, Professor Eleor."  He raised his eyebrows, his gaze steady.  "On both of our parts."

Dreogan gave a bitter smile. "No. I didn't think you would be interested."  That was, perhaps, the only agreement they would both feel comfortable with: Dreogan didn't want to advise any more than Atash wanted to be advised.  But it appeared that Atash didn't want much of anything from him, from the sounds of it.

"Well," Dreogan said, rising to his feet, "once more, you appear to have come a long way for nothing."   Had this not been so aggravating, it might have seemed comical, how these conversations mirrored each other.  "I was extending a hand.  If you're going to question my knowledge on this, I certainly do not need to bother."  It was a rare sensation, this tightness in his stomach, in his shoulders, the involuntary lip-curl.  He supposed this breach of composure was what Adon referred to as a "temper."

"I' have no interest inbeing insulted in my own classroom, Atash. It is really quite enough that I have agreed to talk to you at all, considering the manner of your arrivals.  So. You either listen to what I have to say, or you get out."  He raised an eyebrow, gesturing his hand towards the door.  "Which interests you more?"

Atash's expression sharpened.  He stared back at the other mage, his eyes hard, and for a moment, his fingers seemed to tense, as if he was preparing to reach for his wand.  But then he let out a short breath, the muscles in his jaw and neck tightening as he swallowed, and his hand moved to the silver bracelet around his left wrist instead.  Twisting it, he dropped his gaze to the floor again, taking a deeper breath.

"I...appreciate the hand," he said finally, glancing warily at Dreogan.  "I know that you did not need to contact me.  The help -- even if it is only a very general warning --"  He flicked his hand in brief recognition.  "I am grateful.  And I would not expect or allow you to get involved in a matter that was not your own."

"But," he added slowly, haltingly, "I am -- cautious -- of divination.  I do not mean to question your knowledge, Professor, or your intention.  I apologize if that is how it came across."   He took a deep breath, and then inclined his head to Dreogan, rubbing absently at his right palm with his left thumb.  "I am questioning whether or not I would truly want to know.  There are some waters that, once swallowed, it becomes impossible to ignore the bitterness."[1]

He set his jaw and looked steadily at the mage, his expression fixed determinedly as he met his gaze once more.

"That is why I preferred to come instead of writing," he added quietly, firmly.  "To judge for myself in person.  I do appreciate your indulgence, and I apologize if this takes up more time than you intended as a result.  So.  If you will be kind enough to leave out too many details -- may I ask you what it was that you contacted me to share?"

1.	Revelations 8:11 -- "And the name of the star is called Wormwood; and a third of the waters became Bitter; and many people died of the waters, because they were made bitter."

Dreogan was not certain if the backpedaling was contrition or simply a way of tacking back to regain a previous course.  It mattered little to Dreogan, who was near enough to frustration that he even let a sharp sigh escape. 

"Professor Hendurabi," he began in a tone of forced patience, "perhaps you could advise me on just how you would expect me to proceed to tell you what you want to hear--when you have said yourself you would like to hear it before you determine if it is what you would like to hear?"


Did Atash even hear himself?  Dreogan ran a hand over his face before dropping it to his side, though he did not yet regain his seat.  Giving him nearly nothing to work with, Dreogan could find no way to elegantly, sensitively, or gently proceed.  Bluntness was in order, then.  In fact, it seemed to be ordered.  "I'm not sure I can give you what you are looking for.  Though--dispensing with details and the consideration they would provide, I will tell you that the dream concerns your death."  He looked at the man sharply, trying to gauge the doubtless suppressed response.

The Iranian mage stared back at him, his jaw locked in place.  Despite the hard look in his eyes, he did not focus on Dreogan for very long; his gaze seemed to slip past him, blankly staring at something on the far side of the room, and then he dropped his eyes to the ground, letting out a quiet sigh as he took his head in both hands.

It was one matter entirely to suspect.  This could still be some sort of ploy -- an attempt to maneuver him by an enemy he knew already or one still hidden in the shadows.  But it was another to hear the words, to give voice to what he already knew, deep down.

"There is a difference, I think," he said, more to the ground than to Dreogan, "between knowing the whole of something and only a piece of it."  Everyone, man or mage, knew that they would die one day.  Only the most delusional aspired to immortality.  Knowing it would come -- he stayed leaning over, his shoulders hunched, as he traced the line on his right palm again -- that was a burden that everyone carried.  What made the knowledge bearable was the lack in specificity.

He straightened suddenly, a strange, flat look in his eyes as he glanced to meet Dreogan's gaze once more.  "I will ask you this, then, Seer," he said, raising an eyebrow that was both inquisitive and in challenge.  "You told me once that the lines on my hand would always change.  Do you still find this to be true?  Or does there come a point when a man has no choice in his fate?"

"There is a difference, I think," he said, more to the ground than to Dreogan, "between knowing the whole of something and only a piece of it."


Dreogan exhaled slowly, pressing his lips into the fine, straight line they always assumed when he was repressing an emotion.  "I couldn't agree more. I only know the details of what I've Seen. That's very far from the whole of anything.  One never knows--until future has passed by--whole significance. I usually prefer to convey all these details to clients, because I would need to exercise selective judgment in determining which details might be the most crucial or interesting to point out.  If you wish me to do so, you risk imposed interpretation on my part--something I usually try to avoid.  I much prefer objectivity in delivering what has been revealed.  What you propose makes that impossible."


"I believe that the fate of the individual is particular to the individual--its fixedness and permanence included.  I could not possibly generalize for all men; that transcends any knowledge of mine," he said, a hard edge to his voice.  Atash and his superior attitude would need a severe adjustment, if he was keen to paint Dreogan as a haughty sort.  "I could answer your question--but it is not one that plays to my knowledge as a Seer; that is not the sort of answer that is revealed, and it is not the sort of empirical knowledge that can be gathered through even a lifetime's work. It would merely be opinion.  Which I don't think you particularly interested in."  He lowered his voice, glancing obliquely at the man.  "I may be wrong."

This had turned into a game of semantics -- one that he did not particularly feel like playing.  They were spinning circles within circles, and it all predicated on the idea that he wanted to know anything about this business to begin with.  He had come so far because he was tired; because he did not want more unfinished business hanging over his head.  And perhaps because part of him still feared the idea of a Seer.  The thought that Dreogan Eleor, who had so little right to his life, could know more of his future than he did -- Atash would have preferred that no one had known at all.

He sighed, the exhaustion showing momentarily in his expression.  If the conversation had been in English instead of Arabic, with all of its clauses and conditions, he would have been far more pressed to follow it.

"I hope that you'll forgive me for expressing relief that you can be wrong."  He waved a hand, motioning for the Seer to go on. "An opinion is all that I would expect.  If I were not interested in yours, Dreogan Eleor, then I would not have asked.  Please."

Dreogan waited impassively through what was, perhaps, the first instance of candid emotion Atash Hendurabi had expressed in this conversation. 

"This will be a slight revisitation to whatever fundamental divination coursework you have been exposed to," Dreogan began precisely, the proximity of the chalk and blackboard and his academic tweed making his tone all that more apparently professorial.  "There is a distinction in a Seer's role between conduit and mere man.  As a conduit, he's privy to Fate's course.  As mere man, he--like any man," he said, looking pointedly at Atash, "is prone to error.  A Seer risks sullying meaning the more he attempts to interpret. Certain things are lost in translation, so to be truest to the message he wishes to convey, it is best to give all--and to provide no translation.  That rests upon the recipient, take it as they will."

His lips formed a firm, straight line as he exhaled, biting back offense and irritation.  "So with every opinion I state, and with every liberty I take, here, I'm tarnishing and separating word from meaning.[1]  I'm not sure how to tell whether a man determines his Fate--and Fate merely communicates back the inevitable consequences of agency, or whether a man is merely an actor in Fate's will.  I'm not sure it particularly matters.  What I can tell you from my experience is that people have embraced their Fate, and it has come to pass.  People have fought against their Fate--and that defiance has in fact fulfilled the prophecy to begin with.  Fate comes--in accepting it, ignoring it, or resisting it. It still comes."  He held up his hand, frowning.  With his index finger, he traced the life line on his palm for Atash to see.  "The lines on your hand are not your fate. The lines on your hand are the paths to your fate. And there are many."

1.	See Nietzsche

Atash listened silently.  After a moment, his gaze dropped downward.  Dreogan Eleor was clearly in his purest academic form.  It made him glad for a moment that they had switched to Arabic; following such rhetoric in English would have strained his language skills.  If he intended to continue working in academic circles, clearly that was a weakness that he was going to have to correct.

But understanding the Seer's words did not make it any easier to accept his sentiments.  The young professor was sincere, knowledgeable -- and wrong.  It did matter.  There had been a time, once, where he had wanted to be defined by his ending.  If he had been given the opportunity back then to catch a glimpse of it, to know how everything might finish, he would have seized on it in an instant.  But he was less interested in endings now.  Everyone had one.  On some level, they were all the same.  What mattered more was the story leading up to them.

And if he acceded to Dreogan's offer now -- if he listened to the details of his own likely fate -- that meant that the story was ending, that all that was left was to prepare for his conclusion.  Atash took a deep, final breath, and then looked up again.  As the mage put it, there were three choices.

But maybe that was what he had meant with his comments about sullying through interpretation.  By defining the choice at all, the Seer was interpreting.

"I do not resist it or ignore it," said Atash, his voice quietly resolute.  He had already more or less reached this decision before he had come, he knew, but voicing it aloud made him feel more certain.  "I hope that one day, I will accept it.  But I would like to think that either way, I am still able to choose my fate.  If I know already what is to come -- if you tell me what you have seen -- then that choice loses some of its power, I think."

He stood now, slowly.  Traveling so far had not been easy.  He was less than a year removed from a life spent entirely on the road, but his body was resisting.  He was tired; he'd need to sleep, somewhere in this forsaken town isolated in the almost-desert.  But not here.  He would get far from this place and this man before he would let down his guard.

"Thank you for your kindness in writing to me," he said, giving the other mage a polite nod.  "And for taking the time to talk now, despite my imposition.  But I am afraid that I must decline any more knowledge.  Even if my life is destined to end today, I would like that to happen on my own terms."  He gave a faint, tired smile as he met Dreogan's gaze one last time, and then turned to go.  "And I doubt that even I could resist the urge to look constantly for portents, if I were given a better idea of what to expect."

There was no easy way to deal with this.  Fighting was futile, accepting was defeat, ignoring was delusion.  There was no graceful way, either though perhaps unsurprisingly, Atash Hendurabi's approach was the closest he seen, for all its willful delusions. 


He offered a melancholy smile in response, feeling suddenly old.  "I'm sorry," he responded.  Kindness and letters were hardly enough.  Even for someone Dreogan felt as indifferent towards as Atash Hendurabi.  It had to feel so very heartbreakingly helpless.  Dreogan could see that--could even cognitively comprehend it, but he couldn't fully understand it.  He swallowed as Atash approached the door, rising from his seat now and moving back to his blackboard, to his stack of student papers and lecture notes and textbooks.  He looked down at them, wondering a moment why he was here--why things like this, A's, A-'s, and C+'s, mattered.  When he looked up again, Hendurabi was out of sight, but, Dreogan suspected, not out of hearing--he could still hear the man's precise, quiet step.


"I wish there was more I could have done to help."